


I've Got Dreams to Remember

by toewsyourheart



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bed-Making, Blow Jobs, Christmas Party, Coming Untouched, Desperation, Dirty Santa, Dreaming, Established Relationship, Family, Feels, Fitted Sheet Disaster, Fucking, Love, M/M, Morning Make-Outs, Nervousness, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Holiday Fluff, Proposals, Sleepy Cuddles, Teasing, or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5500409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Patrick's dreaming, one thing's for sure--he never wants to wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a thing, not part of any larger verse you might've seen here before. I kinda pictured it being future fic of sorts, because I don't think this would necessarily be going down rn, but whatever tickles your fancy, folks. 
> 
> Established relationship, because I am established relationship til I die. 
> 
> Thanks to my dawg, heartstrings, for helping me w the title.

It’s a weird thing—dreaming about falling asleep with Jonny while _actually_ being in bed, asleep with Jonny—but that’s what’s happening, apparently, so it takes a couple minutes for Patrick to come to and realize Jonny’s ruining it. 

They’re in their hotel room in Dallas, night before the last game going into the Christmas holiday—well, _morning_ before, because it’s late and Patrick’s trying to sleep, but Jonny’s whispers are tickling his ear… 

“Patrick, are you sleeping?” 

 _Yes,_ Patrick thinks but doesn’t say, because he’s dreaming, and you don’t have to talk back in dreams if you don’t want to. 

“Peeks…you’re asleep, aren’t you?” 

_Yes—didn’t you hear me the first time?_

Dream Jonny is just as pushy as Awake Jonny. 

“Peeeks. Wake uuup—” 

And just as whiny, too. 

“—I can’t sleeep.” 

 _Ah, there it is,_ Patrick thinks. Dream Jonny can’t sleep so nobody gets to. 

Patrick’s mere seconds away from telling Dream Jonny to leave him alone, when he feels a warm, solid hand rub up and down his arm, lips press to his shoulder, and suddenly Dreamland collides with reality, and now-begrudgingly-awake Patrick is conscious of the fact that Dream Jonny has actually been Awake Jonny trying to wake him up this whole time. 

A confusing occurrence, really. 

Patrick grunts, a grouchy, sleepy thing, and rolls over to face him, eyes shut tight as he resists wakefulness.

“What, Jonny? What?” he grumbles, taking a deep breath and blowing it out, loud and longsuffering. “Why are you awake?” 

Jonny pretty much never has trouble sleeping—sleeps like the dead, in fact—and if roles were reversed, Patrick’s sure he’d still be in the ‘waking Jonny up’ phase of this thing; and getting a coherent response from him would be out of the question entirely, especially at this hour, with no coffee to ease him into being among the living. 

“Because I can’t sleep,” Jonny repeats, less whiny this time, voice small, edging on anxious now. 

“How come?” Patrick yawns, making an executive decision to indulge this conversation since Jonny actually sounds slightly distressed. He’s such a good boyfriend like that. 

“Because I’m—I don’t know, I’m nervous.” 

Patrick ‘hmphs’ questioningly, sniffles sleepily. “About?” 

“I don’t want to tell you,” Jonny admits, turning over on his back. 

“Well, why did you fu—” Patrick starts, and then takes another deep breath to stop the grumpy from escaping. 

Jonny didn’t wake him up for nothing, Patrick knows that, and he might not want to tell, but he needs to, apparently—and he’s going to. 

Patrick blinks his eyes open, waits a moment for them to adjust to the darkness until he can just make out the silhouette of Jonny’s face, his hair sticking up everywhere like he’s been tossing and turning. 

He reaches over to gently brush his knuckles against Jonny’s cheek and tries the talking thing again. “What is it, babe? You can tell me.” 

“I think I left the iron on at home—afraid the place might burn down while we’re gone,” Jonny replies, and Patrick chuckles at his first attempt to deflect. Unbelievably weak. 

“Bullshit—for two reasons,” Patrick says groggily, readying his counter argument. “The first: you’ve never ironed a damn thing in your life besides that unfortunately-crooked Girl Scout patch because _I_ do it for you. The second: our iron has an automatic shut-off after an hour, which you already know, because you pointed it out when we got it since nothing gets you goin’ quite like safety precautions.” 

Patrick’s surprisingly articulate, he thinks, for someone who’s half asleep, perhaps still completely asleep and dreaming, even, if this little exchange is anything to go by—he’s not sure anymore. 

“Shut up,” Jonny mumbles, throwing his arm up over his eyes to hide from his own fibbing. 

“Try again,” Patrick presses, and Jonny’s silent for a few seconds before clearing his throat and doing as he’s told. 

“I’m nervous about, uh, the game tomorrow,” he says, and Patrick snorts a laugh, smacking him lightly in the chest, positive he’s still dreaming now, because— 

“You are fucking not,” Patrick accuses, because he knows that’s a lie. There’re a bit of nerves that come with every game, sure, but it’s the goddamn regular season—nothing Jonny’s going to lose sleep over, that’s for certain. “Try _again_.” 

Patrick really wishes he’d get this show on the road. He’s starting to feel a little anxious himself, over whatever it is Jonny’s worrying about, hiding from him. “You woke me up for this, Jonny, now out with it.” 

“Ughh,” Jonny groans. “Okay, but you have to promise not to—” 

“Not to what?” 

Jonny ignores the question and drags his hands over his face, rubbing hard at his eyes. Then he moves quickly, pulling Patrick into his arms, face smushed into Jonny’s neck. 

“I just—” Jonny starts and then pauses, and Patrick wonders if he’s going to die of old age before this is over. “I’m nervous because I’m—” 

Jonny grips tightly at the back of Patrick’s neck, thumb fiddling nervously in his curls, and then he speaks quickly, so low and mumbly that Patrick almost misses it. 

“I’m going to ask you to marry me over the fucking Christmas break, and I’m afraid of what you’ll say.” 

Patrick gasps quietly and stills, replaying Jonny’s words to make sure he heard them correctly, and Jonny tightens his arms. 

Of all the ruined surprises and botched proposals, this Dreamland one has got to be the funniest and most ridiculous Patrick’s heard, because he’s so sure he’s still sleeping; there’s no way in hell Jonny could ever think— 

“Jonny, are you asking me—”            

“ _No_ , I’m not. I said I’m going to—try and keep up,” Jonny interrupts, snippy now that he’s told the truth and probably ten times more nervous than he was to begin with. 

Patrick can tell he’s holding his breath, frozen in place, waiting for a response. 

“Well, I’m only sayin’ yes if you got me a pretty ring, Jonny. Did you get me a pretty ring?” Patrick asks around an ill-timed yawn, shifting to place a kiss beneath Jonny’s ear. 

Jonny slowly lets out that breath he was holding, a sigh of relief if Patrick’s ever heard one; his implied, absolutely unconditional ‘of course I’m going to say yes, you idiot’ loud and clear. 

“You don’t get to ask questions about it,” Jonny answers, but Patrick can hear the smile in his voice now, his nervousness dissipating. This whole thing is so Jonny, it’s almost too much—getting his proposal pre-approved before proceeding with it because the nerves were eating him alive. Classic. 

“Oh, I don’t, huh?” Patrick smirks. “You wake me up in the mid—” 

“Shh, Patrick, I’m tryin’ to sleep here,” Jonny scolds, attempting to shut this down now that he’s gotten the information and peace of mind he came for. “We have a game tomorrow.” 

“You are the absolute fucking worst,” Patrick says with a poke to Jonny’s side, feigning irritation even as his smile threatens to split his whole face in two. 

Jonny fake snores—fake snores!—in response. 

“Oh my god.”

More fake snoring. 

“Fine, that’s juuust fine. You’ll have to face me in the light of day—I know where you live.” 

Jonny kisses Patrick’s forehead, steady and sure, hugging him close.

“Where _we_ live,” he corrects quietly, lips catching on Patrick's skin.

“Where we live,” Patrick repeats, settling into him—into his soon-to-be fiancé.

Because Jonny’s going to propose, and in no land—dream or otherwise—would Patrick _ever_ say no to that.


	2. Chapter 2

Typically one might think that if a person were told they’re going to be proposed to within the next four days, they would spend that time just waiting for it, stressing about it, driving themselves batshit crazy over it. 

Not Patrick, though. 

Nooo, not him—not at all, not even a little. 

Except he is. 

He’s undeniably doing all of those things, _especially_ the last one. It’s all he can think about on the flight back from Dallas—the when’s, where’s, what’s, and how’s flying through his mind over a mile a minute; knee bouncing, hands wringing. And by the time they get home, Patrick’s worn himself out coming up with a whole conspiracy theory as to why Jonny even told him about it in the first place. 

Jonny’s always going on about how he and Patrick are a team—if one of them goes through something, they both go through it, share the burden or whatever—and so whether Jonny would admit it or not, Patrick’s onto him. He was nervous as fuck about this proposal, and Patrick was happily in the dark. Well, now Jonny’s juuust fine, totally at ease, and Patrick’s the one losing his mind. 

Touché, Jonny—touché. 

But if he can be sneaky, so can Patrick…

  

They spend the following day at home, preparing for the Christmas Eve party they’re hosting the next night, awaiting the arrival of their families, and confirming the number of teammates that plan to attend. 

Patrick tries to keep busy—cleaning, perfecting their decorations, calling the caterer, because fuck it all if he’s cooking, and neither is Jonny—and absolutely does _not_ sniff around for hints about his proposal. 

Absolutely not. 

Around late afternoon, he finishes with everything on Jonny’s hand-written task list, wraps some presents, does some reading and internet shopping to pass the evening, and by the time Jonny leaves for O’Hare to pick up his parents, Patrick’s restless and full of nervous energy, which is never good. 

Too much time and space for his mind to wander, for his hands to get into things they shouldn’t. 

So, he’ll admit, the moment Jonny returns from dropping his parents off at their hotel isn’t exactly Patrick’s proudest. 

He may or may not have just finished poking around Jonny’s side of the closet, looking for a tiny box that could contain a ring, a necklace, a _something_ for him, to no avail; and he may or may not have moved on to Jonny’s underwear and sock drawers. 

Too preoccupied to hear him walk upstairs and into their room, that’s for damn sure. 

“ _What_ are you doing?” Jonny’s sharp, but slightly amused reprimand comes from behind and startles Patrick, practically gets him airborne. 

Caught, sock-handed. 

“Uh, just laundry, straightening, you know—nothing, really. How’re your parents?” Patrick tries as he swiftly shuts the useless, box-less drawer, hoping his diversionary tactics will help him come out of this unscathed; there’s no laundry basket in sight, though, so his story has some holes—he’ll admit that, too. 

“Laundry, my ass!” Jonny laughs, so Patrick knows it’s a bust, he’s in trouble. Well, sort of, because Jonny closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Patrick’s shoulders, hands sliding across Patrick’s chest to hold him close, so he doesn’t really _feel_ in trouble. “My sock drawer, Patrick? _Really?_ What do you take me for?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Patrick says as innocently as a newborn baby, and Jonny chuckles, bending to playfully bite at Patrick’s neck. He twitches, nudges Jonny with his shoulder, but otherwise gives him access, lets him do what he wants. Jonny can always do whatever he wants. 

“Oooh okay, I hear ya,” Jonny tells him, then soothes the spot with a wet kiss, working his way beneath Patrick’s ear. “Got takeout downstairs when you’re done snoopin’ for something you’ll never find.” 

He’s clearly so fucking pleased with himself it makes Patrick’s eyes roll on instinct, even though he sort of loves Jonny like this, all cocky and sure, feeling like he’s got a leg up on Patrick; it usually leads to extra super fun times in bed, if nothing else. 

Jonny’s swaying them back and forth now, nosing along Patrick’s jaw, and Patrick squirms in Jonny’s arms; he can feel his dick considering a betrayal, too interested in Jonny’s mouth, demeanor, and proximity, so he attempts to disguise it with a little tantrum. 

“Jonny, s’not fair. This is torture!—just tell me _whennn_! Come _onnn_ ,” Patrick begs, and Jonny cuddles his sneaky fucking face into Patrick’s curls. 

“Not gonna happen, Peeks. Exercise a little patience, eh?” 

“ _Me?!_ You’re the most impatient son of a—” 

Jonny spins him suddenly, and Patrick loses his words as Jonny backs him into the dresser, grin wide and smug, and Patrick wants very much to flick him in the nose but also fuck him senseless, and, you know, be married to him forever. 

It’s a real tough spot to be in, so Patrick just pouts. “Glad you’re in such a holly jolly mood, Jonathan.” 

“Aw, babe, don’t be like that—bet I can get you holly jolly, too,” Jonny murmurs, eyes going dark, dropping to Patrick’s mouth and back up. “C’mere.” 

His hands skim down Patrick’s arms, just a light, tickling brush of Jonny’s warm skin on his, until he can lace their fingers together and lead Patrick over toward the bed. Patrick does his damnedest to remain casual about it, despite the heat pooling in his belly and his quickening pulse—the ever-present need for Jonny rising to the surface and overshadowing his impatience at not being proposed to right this very minute. 

They’ve had so many games lately, there’s been little time and energy for fooling around and well…Jonny doesn’t play fair, obviously. That’s already been established. 

Patrick opens his mouth to address the issue and his voice comes out all breathy. Jonny’s the worst. “If you think ‘m gonna forget, just because you’re tryin’ to distract me…” 

Jonny smirks and pulls Patrick flush to his chest to kiss him once, hard and quick, and then grabs him by the hips, tossing him onto the mattress in one fell swoop, and Patrick gasps as they part, because okay, rude, but he’s completely and shamelessly into it; Jonny using his size advantage to put Patrick exactly where he wants him. Patrick scrambles back as Jonny crawls over him, smile filthy and gaze heated. 

(See, extra super fun times.) 

“Just tryin’ to get you outta these sweatpants,” Jonny says, voice gravely as he rucks up Patrick’s shirt, bending to suck a mark or two on Patrick’s stomach, muscles bunching under Jonny’s mouth as he moves, and _fuuuck_. “That’s it.” 

“We all want things, Jon,” Patrick mumbles, not giving up even as he’s all but writhing under Jonny’s touch, one hand gripping the sheets, the other itching to tug at Jonny’s hair. 

Jonny peers up at him through his lashes, fingers playing at the waistband of Patrick’s sweats, but not making moves to rid him of them just yet. Then he nuzzles in between Patrick’s legs, mouthing at him through the fabric, starting near the base. 

“Well, do you _want_ me to suck your dick, or no?” he asks, like he already knows the answer, because he _does_ ; all confident and sexy, because he _is_ ; and Patrick has to bite his lip to keep the moans at bay when Jonny reaches the head. 

“Oh, fuck—” Patrick whines, tilting his hips up into Jonny’s mouth, and Jonny grins, starts working Patrick’s pants down. “—maybe.” 

Jonny halts all progress, raising an eyebrow at him. “Maybe, huh? That’s all I get?” 

“Fuck you, that’s all you—” Patrick starts mockingly, because Jonny’s a _real_ piece of work, just a total fucking tease all around, with proposals, blowies, you name it; and since Patrick clearly isn’t getting the former, he really wants him to follow through with the latter, right now. So, if Jonny needs to hear him say it with feeling, then fine—he can bite the bullet. 

Patrick props up on one elbow to get a good look at him, tongue running over his bottom lip as he reaches between his legs to thumb at Jonny’s, his dark eyes burning into Patrick’s. He gives in to his previous impulse to rake his fingers through Jonny’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp, and Jonny’s eyes slide closed just as Patrick breathes out a yearning, “ _Please_ , Jonny. Want you to so bad—want you to fuck me after, too.”

When Jonny’s eyes fly open, they’re on fire, and he’s shaking his head ‘yes,’ tugging more urgently on Patrick’s sweats now. 

“Fuck, yeah, Pat, okay,” he says, and by the time Jonny’s lips wrap around his cock, Patrick’s almost forgotten what inspired this whole ordeal to begin with, and shorty after, when Jonny’s pushing into him for the first time in weeks, he can barely even remember his name…


	3. Chapter 3

Their takeout has long gone cold by the time they make it downstairs, but neither of them can find a single fuck to spare over it. Patrick would trade hot food for hot sex with Jonny _any_ day, and well…that’s what microwaves and stoves are for, right? 

After Jonny reheats their dinner—a double order of Patrick’s favorite Thai dish—burning himself only once in the process, they eat next to each other at the bar, slipping into that relaxed, comfortable silence they’ve always been able to find, and Patrick’s feeling pretty damn zen, if he’s honest. 

Jonny doesn’t hesitate to take full credit for it, the asshole. 

“Fucked some chill into you, I see,” he snickers later when they’re on the couch watching TV; Patrick’s head in his lap, Jonny’s fingers combing gently through his hair. Patrick almost doesn’t hear him, too focused on Jonny’s hands—how good it feels, the way his touch resonates deep in Patrick’s belly, just a low, steady burn of arousal beneath the surface. 

Still though, he doesn’t need to look up at Jonny to see the stupidly satisfied grin he’s surely wearing. 

Patrick lightly pinches the sensitive skin on the inside of Jonny’s thigh in retaliation, and he flinches, but otherwise does his best not to jostle Patrick too much. 

“You hush your mouth,” Patrick smirks, though Jonny’s not wrong. Being with him like this, with or without the sex, has always eased something in Patrick, even when Jonny’s being a proposal-tease. “S’not like _you_ have any to spare anyways, so be careful.” 

Jonny laughs, because Patrick’s funny like that, and moves a hand from Patrick’s hair to slide down his side, stopping at his hip, fingers digging in near Patrick’s groin. He ‘hmmms’ thoughtfully, and Patrick can hear the implications behind it—he must gearing up for round two. 

“Maybe you should return the favor then,” he murmurs, voice dropping down to what Patrick immediately recognizes as Jonny’s ‘I’m being seductive, or something’ voice. “Since you’ve got extra and all.” 

Patrick sits up just as Jonny’s fingers are creeping between his legs and raises an eyebrow, signature filthy grin in place, one hundred percent on board with where this is headed—gotta take full advantage of the off days when they get ‘em. “If you’re tryin’ to get fucked, Jon, all you have to do is say.” 

Jonny tightens his grip in Patrick’s curls and leans down for a kiss, deep and languid, tongues tangling together as Patrick surges into him. Jonny pulls back slightly, sucks on Patrick’s bottom lip a little, before breathing out, “M’tryin’ to get fucked.” 

And that’s all it takes. They’re kissing again, more frantic now, and Patrick’s hard, ready to go, visions of taking Jonny over the back of the couch flooding his mind; Jonny’s hand making another play for his sweats, but then— 

“Wait, shit, not here,” Patrick mumbles, moving away quickly as realization dawns, and Jonny groans, annoyed at the delay, because of _course_ he does. 

When _he_ wants something, it’s got to be now, right this very second; the impatience is unreal, but he’ll have to get over it… 

“My _sisters_ have to sit on this couch tomorrow—my _mother_ , Jon,” Patrick tells him with conviction, and the appalled look on his face must be hilarious because Jonny’s cackling, nose scrunched adorably. It’s a genuine concern though; one that can’t be ignored, so Patrick doesn’t get what his deal is, really. 

Jonny cups Patrick’s face in his hand, eyes so incredibly fond it makes Patrick’s chest ache, and smooths a thumb over his cheekbone. “Bed, then?” 

Patrick nods in agreement, mouth dry. “Bed.” 

 

Once they’re properly naked and Patrick’s got Jonny situated on his back, legs spread wide with one knee bent, Patrick makes a real show of opening him up, takes his precious time with it. 

He spends a bit kissing and massaging Jonny’s thighs, kneading his cheeks to relax him before slicking up his fingers; all the while Jonny’s eyes never leave his, breaths hitching when Patrick’s fingers get close to where he wants them. Patrick rubs a teasing thumb along Jonny’s perineum, grazing his hole again and again before breaching it, working slowly, gently, ready to drag this out all night if Jonny will let him… 

That’s not happening, of course, and after a couple minutes of Patrick’s fingers disappearing inside him—one, then two, then three—Jonny’s cursing at him _in French_ , sweaty and squirming and flushed all over, fists gripping the sheets at his sides. 

“ _Tabarnak_ , Kaner, if you don’t fucking—” 

Patrick smirks, angling up to hit his prostate, and Jonny’s threats cut off into another loud, sobbing swear. 

“Not so fun to be kept waiting, huh?” Patrick asks roughly, though it’s a cheapie, really—he’s not trying to punish here, he just wants this to be good for Jonny, is all; they don’t get to do this that often, as sufficient breaks in the season are few and far between, and Patrick loves it…bringing Jonny to the edge with his fingers before he gets his own dick involved in the action and can’t think straight enough to mentally catalogue every little sound Jonny makes—each choked, ragged breath and moan Patrick can drag from him. 

“Christ, I—would you just, _please,_ ” Jonny begs, sounding half out of his mind when he adds, “I _want_ it.”—and the desperation in his voice sends a hot chill down Patrick’s spine and a much greater sense of urgency to his dick. Nobody gets to see Jonny like this, needy and out of control; it’s a powerful feeling, leaves Patrick scrambling to remove his fingers and give Jonny what he’s asked for, what they both _need_ now. 

Despite that though, Patrick fucks Jonny slowly, tenderly and unhurried when he finally pushes into him and slides home, Jonny’s eyes fluttering shut once Patrick’s in to the hilt. The stroke of his hips are reverent and deliberate as Jonny pants beneath him, throat working in time with Patrick’s movements, and he fumbles to wrap his hand tight around the back of Patrick’s neck to pull him closer. 

“ _Ungh_ , fuckin’ me so good, Pat,” Jonny groans, fingers flexing in Patrick’s curls, and he shivers at the praise, at the fucked-out sound of Jonny’s voice. 

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, leaning down lick into his mouth before moving to adjust the angle; he’s fucking Jonny good, yeah, but Patrick wants to fuck him _better._  

“Ye-aah,” Jonny stutters, yelping when Patrick gets him just right. 

Patrick’s got one hand in the bend of Jonny’s knee now, raising his leg and pressing it back; the other roaming every part of Jonny’s body he can reach—his muscled chest and thick thighs, his gorgeous face, whatever—murmuring admirations as he goes. Jonny’s dick is lying hard against his stomach, bobbing with each forward thrust; red, glistening with pre-come, and dying for attention, so Patrick sets out to give it some. 

Jonny swats his hand away immediately though, hissing at the brief contact. 

“No, don’t—just from this, c’mon,” he whines encouragingly, punctuating his point by clenching down around Patrick’s dick, and Patrick almost chokes, closes his eyes to focus intently on not coming right then because looking into Jonny’s is too fucking much. 

“Oh my god, Jonny—okay, baby, I got you,” Patrick rambles as he starts up a more frenzied pace. “Shit, you feel so—fuck, I swear.” 

“Harder, Kaner,” Jonny demands around a moan, clutching Patrick’s hand where it rests on his stomach. “Wanna feel it, feel you tomorrow.” 

“Shut your _mouth_ , Jonny, before I fucking—” come right _now_ , Patrick thinks, but he’s short-circuited, incapable of speaking after that, setting a pounding rhythm now, just like Jonny wants. 

In no time at all, Jonny’s coming with a shout, a litany of Patrick’s name sprinkled with curses streaming from his mouth as he shoots up his abs and chest, muscles bunching and thighs twitching with it, and it’s overwhelming, way more than enough to push Patrick over that edge he’s been riding after doing his damnedest to hold out for Jonny’s orgasm. 

He comes so hard he sees spots, a vivid burst of sensation all over his body, and vaguely registers Jonny talking him through it as he spills, collapsing with a grunt after he’s spent, right into Jonny’s come, tacky and hot between them; and instead of getting grumpy about Patrick being heavy or whatever, Jonny just wraps his arms around Patrick, pushes his damp curls off his forehead. 

“You were so good, Peeks,” Jonny croons, brushing his lips across Patrick’s hairline as they both fight to catch their breath. 

“Don’t even—you tried to kill me,” Patrick mumbles accusingly, replaying ‘ _wanna feel you tomorrow_ ’ over and over in his head, shivering at the memory; Jonny and his filthy fucking mouth wreaking havoc on Patrick’s stamina. Death by orgasm wouldn’t be a bad way to go though, now that Patrick thinks about it. 

“I’m not sorry,” Jonny chuckles unremorsefully as he tightens his hold, knowing full well what he did, and Patrick blows out a breathy laugh, expending energy he doesn’t have to lift his head and meet Jonny’s eyes. 

“How un-Canadian of you,” Patrick says flatly, kissing the corner of Jonny’s smirk before scooting the majority of his body off him and tucking his face into Jonny’s neck. “You get to change the sheets tomorrow for that though.” 

“I think I can handle it,” Jonny whispers, aware that Patrick’s as good as asleep. If he were closer to conscious, Patrick would beg to differ on the sheets thing; he’s caught Jonny throwing a tantrum simply trying to fold the fitted one on multiple occasions—excellent stuff. 

Patrick can hear Jonny rummaging around for tissues now, feels him gently wiping them up, and just makes out his muted “love you, babe” before he switches off the lamp, and Patrick thinks his response is audible, but he can’t be too sure… 

 

As easily predicted, Jonny requires assistance with the sheet the next morning, its complexity and their massive bed proving too much for him once again. 

Patrick emerges from the shower, tugs on some boxers, and shuffles into their room, and by some miracle, Jonny’s too frustrated and preoccupied with the task at hand to notice, so Patrick hangs out in the doorway to enjoy the entertainment for a minute.

Jonny’s struggling, to say the absolute least, on his knees in the middle of the bed, ass in the air (quite the treat), with his arms extended from corner to corner as he tries to secure one side of the fitted sheet around the thick mattress without the other popping off. It doesn’t work, obviously, because no human’s arms can actually reach that far—they’ve got a California king, for Christ’s sake—but his attempts are beyond hilarious, and Patrick has to bite his fist to stifle his giggles. 

Jonny huffs a growl when that plan of attack royally fails, so he takes to securing one corner, holding it in place with his feet, and then stretching his body across the bed to do the other. Sure enough though, as soon as he gets the opposite corner done, the portion at his feet pops right off, tangling around them, and Jonny has a full-on _fit_ , kicking and stuffing his face in the mattress to yell, and Patrick can’t hold it in anymore. 

“Oh my God, Jonny— _Jonny_ ,” he wheezes, doubling over in laughter, and Jonny’s head snaps up, the corner he’d just finished coming loose and smacking him in the chin to add insult to injury. 

When Patrick finally collects himself, Jonny is glaring daggers at him, all red-faced and scowling, and it only gets him going again. 

“How long were you just gonna stand there, eh, asshole?” Jonny barks, scrambling to sit up and recover what little dignity he has left after being totally worked by a fitted sheet. 

“As long as it took, babe—as long as it took,” Patrick replies with a chuckle, stumbling over to him. “Ready to admit defeat and beg for my help?” 

“ _Pffft_ —no, go away,” Jonny scoffs, kicking a leg out at Patrick when he goes to grab the end of the sheet nearest him. “I can do it!” 

“ _Can_ you?” Patrick asks dubiously, eyebrow raised, catching Jonny’s ankle when he kicks at him again and grazing his thumb gently over the knob. “Because the display _I_ just witnessed suggests otherwise.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Jonny grumbles, but he’s smiling bashfully now, and Patrick loves him so much—his adorably grumpy, domestically inept, soon-to-be fiancé. “I don’t know how you even, with your short little arms.” 

“Oh yeah, nice, Jon, insult the man who’s about to save you from smothering yourself with a fitted sheet,” Patrick says, climbing onto the bed; Jonny was still sleeping when he got up to get in the shower, so—“Good morning,” he adds warmly, leaning in for a kiss, and Jonny rolls his eyes, but smiles lovingly, meeting him halfway to reciprocate. 

They make out for a minute, because they can’t ever seem to, you know, _not_ once their lips meet when they’re alone, and then they get up to tackle the sheets together. 

It’s quick work with the both of them, and much to Patrick’s surprise, Jonny admits it. 

“See, s’way easier when I’ve got you,” he mumbles, and Patrick knows he’s specifically referencing the bed-making, but the way Jonny says it, all fond and soft and shy—Patrick’s sure he’s talking about everything else, too.


	4. Chapter 4

They go their separate ways after coffee—Jonny to collect his parents and brother for breakfast, Patrick to pick up his family from the airport—and on the drive, Patrick sings along with the radio, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. He feels lighter after his downtime with Jonny; happy, more than ready to see his family, and prepared be patient on the proposal front…if he must.

 

Once Patrick makes it to O’Hare, it’s not long before he’s got exactly what he’s after: two arms full of Kane women, his favorite in the whole world, and unfortunately, their luggage, too. His dad looks more than thankful for the assistance, wrapping him in a tight hug and sighing with relief when Patrick takes the heaviest bags. 

“Jesus, are you guys stayin’ for three _days_ or three _months_? Because I sure can’t tell,” Patrick teases, making a show of chucking all their shit into the back of his Hummer. 

“Hush, Patty, you _wish_ we’d stay forever,” Jackie shoots back, shoving him affectionately in the shoulder, and Patrick just laughs and shrugs because, okay, yeah…maybe so. It would certainly put a damper on the ol’ sex life, but it’s not like he would turn them away or anything. 

“My bank account wouldn’t survive it,” Patrick says instead—they don’t need to hear about the effect their permanent presence would have on him getting laid—and that’s when Erica pipes up, as easily predicted.

“Speeeaking of, oh favorite brother of mine, we’re going shopping, right?” she asks sweetly, clutching his arm and batting her eyelashes at him, as if that’s even necessary. He always buys them whatever they want, whenever they want, and the holidays only weaken his ability to say no. 

“When have we ever not?” Patrick replies, and she squeezes him tight, like a hug, but just for his arm, and _man_ , Patrick’s glad they’re here… 

 

He’s looking for a spot in a garage on Michigan—which is sort of a challenge in a beast like Patrick’s, even though he’s aces at parking—when the peanut gallery chimes in again. 

Patrick loves the ladies in his life, but they’ve got so many opinions and things that somehow always translate into telling him what to do… 

“It was so much easier when you lived at Trump, Pat, then we could just walk from there, you know,” Erica grumbles, like she’s truly inconvenienced by being driven _closer_ to the stores where Patrick’s about to drop a couple stacks on them. 

“Oh, get over it, little sister,” Patrick says, no heat to it whatsoever, but she sticks her tongue out at him just the same. “Hey, tell it to Jon, anyway—Mr. ‘I Wanna Live in the ‘Burbs’.” 

“How _is_ Jonathan anyway?” his mom interjects, using her voice that tells Patrick she’s gearing up to give him the business about something. He can’t look at her because, still trying to park and everything, but he’s heard it enough to recognize it and brace himself. “Still hasn’t been able to talk you into a more…sensible vehicle, I see.”

There it is. 

“If I had something smaller, no way I’m fittin’ the five of you, plus all your shi—stuff, Ma,” Patrick counters, because it’s true; the Kanes don’t travel lightly, by any stretch of the imagination, and a lesser vehicle wouldn’t be able to handle it. “Besides, Jonny loves my Hummie,” he fibs, almost unable to get it out with a straight face. 

Jonny hates everything about it, including, but not limited to, the fact that Patrick utters the word ‘hummie’ when referencing it sometimes. 

“Hardly,” she scoffs, then her voice goes softer. “Jonathan loves _you_ , though.” 

Patrick’s found a spot to park and pulls in seamlessly, meeting his mom’s eyes in the rear-view, his sisters blabbering on about what they’re in the market for, and as soon as he sees her face, he knows that she _knows._ Her lips are pursed, eyes all knowing, and Patrick would bet every cent in his wallet that Jonny’s talked to her about proposing.

He swallows, nervous about what she thinks of it, so his voice comes out a little squeaky when he responds, “He does.” 

 

They’re deep off in a department store before Patrick’s able to corner her alone. It’s almost like she knew he was trying, so she intentionally made it difficult for him, sticking by his sisters, who certainly can’t be trusted with the information at this stage in the game. Moms, man… 

“When did he tell you?” Patrick asks, skipping the pleasantries and jumping right to the good stuff, relieving her of the shopping bag she’s carrying to butter her up. 

“When did who tell me what?” she answers, playing dumb even though she so obviously knows, and Patrick narrows his eyes. 

“C’mon, you know who. _Jonathan_. When did he tell you about the thing?” 

“What thing, Patrick? I don’t know what you’re—” 

“Oh, cut the crap, Ma. He already spilled the beans, been torturin’ me for two whole days now,” Patrick interrupts, jabbing two fingers into the air for emphasis. She shakes her head and smiles incredulously, probably thinking about how ridiculous Jonny is. Because who else would rat themselves out about proposing? Pretty much nobody, that’s who. 

“I doubt he’s torturing you, son. You’re probably doing most of it to yourself,” she speculates, and okay, that’s fair. “But he didn’t _tell_ me anything. He—well, he asked us.” 

“He _asked_ you?” Patrick repeats, mouth falling open in surprise. What a—Jesus, Jonny’s something else; and Patrick doesn’t mean to, but he starts giggling like a fucking schoolgirl and can’t stop. Because this is his life, and Jonny is his and he’s perfect and he—“He asked you and Dad for my _hand_ , in marriage. He’s _un_ believable.”

Patrick’s imagining the conversation now, and it’s too much—Jonny all nervous, probably called them ‘Mr. and Mrs. Kane’ even though he dispensed with the formalities years ago after countless threats from the both of them to ease up and call them Pat and Donna, at least. 

“He’s very respectful,” she says sternly, an unspoken reprimand for Patrick’s giggles, so he cuts it out. “Our approval is important to him.”

“He has it, right?” Patrick asks meekly, chewing on his lip. They love Jonny. He has to… “It’s important to me too.” 

“You know what I told him?” she starts, reaching up to tuck a curl behind his ear. “I told him he’s already family, might as well make it official, and that you’d be an idiot to say no, because he was worried, Patrick; afraid you’re not the ‘marrying kind’ or some nonsense you’d led him to believe—” 

“Back when I was dating _girls_ and not _him_ ,” Patrick clarifies, face flushing at the memory of that terrible time in his life when he and Jon were hiding from each other and Patrick was hiding from everyone, but his mom just ignores him and powers on. 

“—and apparently he’s convinced you _are_ an idiot, since he felt the need to tell you about it himself.” 

“Ha-ha, good one, you’re funny,” Patrick says, and she’s smiling at him expectantly now, like she also needs the assurance that Patrick’s going to say yes. 

What is with these people, seriously? 

“Mama didn’t raise no fool,” he tells her, and she pinches his cheeks then pats them lovingly, like he’s six years old. 

“No, she did not,” she replies, seemingly satisfied with that answer and ready to close the lid on the conversation, but—

“Hey, did he happen to say  _when_ he—?”

“Yeah, not a chance,” she says, cutting him off with a grin. “Nice try, son.” 

And Patrick knows that’s officially the end of that. 

 

After they finish up with shopping and Patrick’s sufficiently broken the bank on his sisters (just kidding, not really; he’s stupid rich), he takes them to their hotel to get ready for the party, leaves them his Hummie to drive over later, and hops an Uber home. 

Normally the whole fam would crash with him and Jonny, since they’ve got like three spare rooms, but when making arrangements this time, Patrick’s mom insisted on them staying in a hotel as to “give you boys your holiday space.”

Patrick should’ve known something was up then, but the December hockey grind and his self-preserving instinct to do exactly as she says with no backtalk had him off his game, apparently. 

 

When he gets home, Patrick finds Jonny hard at work, cutting up perfectly uniform squares of paper for Dirty Santa drawing numbers, teeth worrying at the corner of his mouth in concentration.

It’d taken roughly a month of coercing, but Patrick eventually convinced him that it was absolutely imperative that they put on the most outlandish display of Dirty Santa in the history of humankind. 

“Epic and extra, Jon. Epic aaand extra,” he’d said. 

“Like you, huh?” Jonny responded. 

“Now you’re gettin’ it,” Patrick answered proudly. 

So the plan was officially a go after that, and in typical Jonny fashion, once he got on board, he was in it to win; and in typical Patrick fashion, he was in it to spend a ton of their money. 

Once it was all said and done, they ended up shelling out around fifteen grand for the whole lot of gifts; complete with a weekend spa getaway, an actual golf cart—which will be Patrick’s at the end of the night, make no mistake about that—a designer handbag, jewelry, and plenty other ridiculous shit to please all audiences. 

To maintain fairness and neutrality, they had stand-in vouchers for each present wrapped in identical boxes and paper, so they wouldn’t have the upper hand as hosts. Jonny’s demand, of course, because he’s a goody two shoes Canadian boy, but Patrick loves a challenge anyway, so it’ll be fine. 

Patrick watches Jonny for a minute, the precise movements of his hands mesmerizing as he methodically cuts each piece, assigns it a number with a fine-tipped sharpie, and adds it to his nice, neat stack. He’s much better at this than the bed making; Patrick will give him that, for sure. 

He saunters up behind him at his place at the kitchen counter, wrapping his arms securely around Jonny’s waist and kissing the back of his neck. 

“Workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” Patrick mouths against his skin, slipping a hand beneath the hem of Jonny’s soft, white v-neck to graze back and forth over his abs. 

“I think you already know the answer to that,” Jonny says, focused; work ethic unwavering in all aspects of his life, even second grade-level tasks. Having a bunch of people over makes him extra uptight, too, even if it’s just family and teammates, so Patrick knows he’s in hyper-organization mode. He’s probably called the caterers ten times already, just to make sure they’re still coming at four and don’t forget anything. 

Patrick sets out to calm him down a bit, purposefully trailing his fingers over a particularly ticklish spot on Jonny’s side and he jolts, errantly snipping off a corner of his current square. 

What a backfire. 

Jonny huffs, utterly put out, like when a pass hops just over his tape on the ice or a scoring chance doesn’t pan out as he envisioned. 

“Jesus, Pat, look. You made me fuck it up.” 

He’s so ridiculous. Patrick jerks away, gasping in mock-horror, and turns the drama up to a ten. 

“Oh my god, you’ve ruined Christmas, Jon! Whatever will we do?! Quick, cancel the _whole_ party!” 

Jonny levels him with a blank stare, seemingly unamused. If Patrick had a dollar for every one of these he’s been the recipient of, he could easily forfeit the remainder of his contract. 

“I have scissors,” Jonny says flatly, and Patrick laughs at him, because he’d never harm a single hair on Patrick’s head, figuratively or literally—it’s thinning enough as is—and they both know it. 

“Can’t believe you talked me into this,” he continues, muttering about wasting money as he gets back to work. He scraps the messed up square, of course, because he’s a weirdo who can’t tolerate imperfections of any kind. 

Patrick laughs at him again, even louder and more disbelieving this time, because he isn’t convinced. He could probably talk Jonny into committing murder, and they both know that, too. 

“Can you _really_ not?” 

“Yeah, alright, shut up,” Jonny mumbles with disgruntled resignation; he’s never been good at saying no to Patrick, and sometimes it annoys him more than others. Like now. 

“Aw, babe, love you back,” Patrick chuckles, which earns him an eye roll; and just for that, he makes Jonny kiss him for a minute to rub it in before he heads off to the living room to arrange their awesome gifts on the special Dirty Santa table. 

 

The party is a bangin’ time, obviously. 

The food is great. The eggnog—Mama Kane’s special recipe—is awesome. The guests—both of their families, the Seabrooks, Duncan and his girl, and the Hjalmarssons—are top notch. 

Patrick only gets jittery once, when Jonny disappears for a bit, and he has this moment, pulse racing and palms suddenly sweaty, where he actually thinks Jonny might pop the question in front of everyone they know and love here. 

Turns out he just went to take a piss. 

Jonny catches his eye as soon as he reenters the room, and Patrick’s face must be one of nervous shock or blatant disappointment or something, because Jonny casually waltzes over and throws an arm around him. 

“I could pretty much feel you freaking from the bathroom,” he whispers, twisting his hand up to stroke Patrick’s cheek, and his fingers are damp. Ew. 

“Yeah, well I hope you washed your hands, you dick,” Patrick grumbles, and Jonny chuckles in his ear. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time you had it on your face,” he says, then does that stupid ‘heh-heh’ laugh, special for when he thinks he’s really gotten Patrick good. 

Patrick’s mom didn’t believe it when he said Jonny was torturing him, but mama didn’t raise no liar either, and Jonny so totally _is._  

“You suck.” 

“Now you’re just playin’ soft toss,” Jonny says, and Patrick rolls his eyes, sliding out from under him to go bother his sisters while Jonny just laughs after him. 

Funny how a couple spiked eggnogs will leave a guy thinking he’s the most clever thing in the room… 

Jonny fully redeems himself during Dirty Santa, though; which, in Patrick’s opinion, steals the entire show. How could it not, with such badass gifts and the sheer entertainment value of thieving shit from your friends and family? 

Things get a little dicey toward the end, however; and by that, Patrick means there’s a moment where he’s almost certain Seabs is going to smother him and Jonny both with a throw pillow. 

When they’d drawn for numbers, because he’s the luckiest son of a bitch on god’s green earth and Team Canada to his core, Jonny’d picked sixteen, the most coveted position in the game: dead fucking last. 

Infinitely more desirable than Patrick’s number four. No offense to Hjammer or anything, but what a bogus spot. 

It all works in Patrick’s favor, turns out. 

Everyone’s got their stuff; some trying to make themselves disappear into the couch so nobody steals, others holding their vouchers all ‘please take this’—like Jackie, for example, who’s got an unwanted five-hundred dollar gift card to Bass Pro Shop, a true wet dream of a gift for Jonny. 

Patrick’s stuck with a free suit tailoring from some expensive ass store, while Seabs sits smugly across the room with the golf cart that doesn’t belong to him. It’s already been stolen twice, one steal away from dead, and Patrick’s helpless. 

Or so he thought. 

There’s one present left unopened, and the ball is in Jonny’s court. He glances around at everyone’s vouchers, index finger tapping his chin like he’s really deliberating, truly high on the power trip of going last, Patrick can tell. 

“Would you just _pick_ already?” Davey groans, a sibling-style complaint if Patrick’s ever heard one; and he has, plenty. 

“Don’t rush mister sixteen, David,” Jonny responds haughtily, the jackass. Been putting poor Davey in his place since birth. 

He picks up the remaining present and shakes it near his ear like a dork, even though there’s no way to gauge what it could possibly be because, hello, vouchers—his idea. Hell, they actually bought all these gifts and Patrick can’t even remember what’s in there. 

Finally though, Jonny’s gaze falls to Patrick and he smiles softly, eyes scheming in contrast; and he sets the box back on the table, strolling over to Patrick on a mission, mind clearly made up. Patrick holds his breath as Jonny leans down and slides the tailoring voucher from Patrick’s fingers, pressing a kiss beneath his ear. 

“Go get your golf cart, baby,” he whispers, and Patrick’s heart flutters, so touched he thinks he might cry a little, honestly. Jonny’s giving him two of the greatest gifts ever: a) his beloved golf cart and b) the joy and honor of being the one to steal it away from Seabs. 

“ _No_! Conspiracy!” Seabs gasps, promptly ruining Patrick’s moment of internal fawning over Jonny, bringing him back to one that’s almost better. 

He peers around Jonny, leveling Seabs with the most shit-eating grin he can muster, and Seabs looks murderous in return, truly appalled at this twist of events. 

“Cheaters! They’re cheating!” he yells, actually looking toward their mothers like a tattle-tail, and Patrick stands up, fist bumping Jonny before he struts over to claim what’s rightfully his.

“Nah, fair and square,” Patrick says, just as Seabs is complaining, “You don’t even have anywhere to _ride_ it!” 

“You don’t know where I’ll ride it, Seabiscuit,” Patrick retorts contrarily, smug as fuck as he snatches the voucher. “M’gonna pimp this thing out sooo hard. Might even let you borrow it, if you ask real nice.” 

“Fuck you,” Seabs mouths, because moms and sisters are here, and he’s polite even in moments of rage, then sneers, “I’ll buy my own before I stoop to beggin’ you.” 

“Won’t ease the sting of defeat,” Patrick bellows, busting out an enthusiastic heartbreaker celly in the middle of the living room, much to everyone’s amusement—except Seabs’, obviously. 

“Boom!” 

The golf cart is his. He has won Dirty Santa. 

Patrick looks over at Jonny, his hero of the night, and damn if he doesn’t have the proudest, most satisfied expression on his face, like a win for Patrick is a win for him, too. 

Jonny winks all, ‘I got your back, babe,’ and fuck— 

Patrick wants to be married to him like, yesterday.

  

Seabs eventually simmers down, and after a little more drinking and making merry, so does the party. By nine forty-five, everyone’s filed out, and Patrick and Jonny are left to their own devices, cuddled up on the couch, toasty by the fireplace. 

Patrick knows he should make Jonny help him load the dishwasher or something, since their families are coming back over tomorrow for Christmas brunch, but Jonny feels so good; he’s sort of forgotten how to move. 

“Have a good time tonight?” Jonny asks after a minute, weirdly alert, given how long they’ve been lounging here. Normally he’d be dozing by now, breathing all heavy into Patrick’s hair, but his voice indicates that the night is just beginning. It’s got Patrick’s full attention; he can always muster the energy and excitement for a Christmas Eve boning. 

“’Course I did,” Patrick replies, shuffling around to straddle Jonny’s thighs as best as his fancy pants will allow. They aren’t Jonny-tight, but still—they have their limitations. He laces his fingers together around the back of Jonny’s neck, eyebrows waggling as he asks, “Ready for our after party?” 

Jonny chuckles, reaching up to smooth his hands up and down Patrick’s forearms, smile soft and easy. “I was thinkin’ we could swap one present, then head up to bed, yeah?” 

“Oooooo,” Patrick drawls, very interested. “So _two_ presents? A thing and then you?” 

“A thing and then me,” Jonny repeats, patting Patrick’s knee for him to hop up and go pick one. “You first."

Patrick gives him a quick kiss and goes, because who needs to be told twice to open a gift? Not him. 

Patrick shuffles over to the tree, fingers drumming in front of his face in deliberation, and Jonny clears his throat from his place on the couch. 

“Not there,” he says, and when Patrick looks back at him, puzzled as ever, Jonny’s pointing to the mantle. “Yours is up there. Behind the garland, right side.” 

Weird. What could—Why would there be—

Patrick’s heart seizes in his chest, skin prickling hot; he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but the next thing he knows, he’s all but running to the mantle, reaching behind a red bow to close his fingers around the distinct velvet of a jewelry box.

His breath catches in his throat, and when he turns around to face Jonny, he’s already there, standing close in front of Patrick. 

“Jonny,” Patrick whispers on an exhale, gripping the box so tightly it aches in his knuckles. “Are you about to—?” 

“Yes,” Jonny answers solidly, eyes so dark, intense and sincere. “Open it.” 

Patrick glances at the box in his now trembling hand and lifts the lid, staring openmouthed at what’s inside. 

It’s not the pretty ring he joked about, but it’s beautiful all the same: a platinum chain looped through a white gold diamond-studded cross pendant, with an elegant Claddagh symbol adorning its center. At the risk of sounding like someone’s eighty-year-old grandmother, it—it’s _breathtaking_ ; the warm, flickering light of the fire glinting off its surface, and Patrick adores it instantly, wants it around his neck always. 

There are tears welling in his eyes when he looks up at Jonny, and even though he knew this was coming, Patrick’s not at all prepared. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a knee or somethin’?” Patrick jokes weakly to combat the lump in his throat, feeling like his own knees might buckle under the weight of his swirling emotions.

“Is that what you need?” Jonny asks, raising an eyebrow, and he makes a move to get down there, but Patrick clutches his bicep to stop him.

“No, I—no, I don’t,” he stammers, looking back to his shiny. “Jonny, it’s—I love it.” 

“I hoped you would,” Jonny tells him, sliding the box from Patrick’s hands, eyes boring into his. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and Patrick holds his in return, knowing Jonny’s gearing up to lay it all on the line here. “I thought the Claddagh would be nice because of the Irish Catholic thing you’ve got going.” 

His lips quirk up in a bashful smile that Patrick wants to kiss, then he presses forward. 

“And because. God, Patrick, it means everything you are to me and I promise to be for you. You’re my best friend, and I don’t—I _can’t_ be without you, you know that; everyone we know knows that. I’ll always, always be loyal and faithful to you, and I think the love part is pretty obvious here, yeah? I’ve—I think I’ve loved you since the first time you screamed back at me on the ice, Pat, and I need to be your husband. I have to be.” 

Patrick feels the tears trickling down his face, plain as day, and he’s never felt so loved or full of love in his life. It’s like rainbows and sunshine and Stanley Cups, but better, because this feeling is his to keep forever, just like Jonny. 

Jonny opens his mouth again, and Patrick knows the actual question is coming, but first— 

“Why’d you pick right now?” Patrick blurts, because the timing of this, after the party, seems like a calculated move. 

Jonny smiles, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that Patrick’s maybe never seen before as he cups Patrick’s face in his hand, brushing the wetness away with his thumb. “Because, Peeks, it’s us. At the end of the day, when all the noise is gone, when our families and teammates aren’t around, when hockey is done, it’s you and me; and that’s all I’ll ever need to be okay, to be happy—you, just you. You’re my family.” 

“Jesus, Jon,” Patrick replies, throwing himself into Jonny’s arms and crushing their mouths together. He had no other choice; Jonny’s said everything there is to say, and Patrick needs Jonny to feel how completely he returns those sentiments. He’s squeezing Jonny as tightly to his body as he can, giving him everything he’s got, and murmurs in between frantic kisses to Jonny’s lips, his cheeks, his jaw, fresh tears running everywhere. “Ask me. Ask. me. now.” 

Jonny’s breathless when he pulls away, eyes searching Patrick’s face, but his voice is steady. 

“Will you marry me, Patrick?” 

“Absolutely, a million times, whenever, wherever, yes,” Patrick beams, and Jonny squeezes his eyes closed, like he’s fighting tears himself, the tension in his neck and shoulders draining out in waves. 

“Say it again,” he whispers, and Patrick stretches up on his tiptoes to press his lips to each of Jonny’s eyelids, then to each corner of his mouth. 

“Yes, Jonny, I’ll marry you. I need to be your husband back,” Patrick reiterates with a sniffle. “Now put my shiny around my neck, please.” 

Jonny huffs a laugh and opens his red-rimmed eyes, smile bright and stupidly pleased, and does as he’s told, making quick work of removing the necklace from the box and clasping it around Patrick’s neck. 

Patrick peers down at where it hangs against his crisp, white button-up, and grips it firmly in his hand, pointy edges poking into his skin until it’s almost painful.

“I love you,” he says, and Jonny kisses him in response, because he doesn’t need to say it back with words for Patrick to know.

After a minute, Patrick eases off and slides his hands down to hold Jonny’s sides. “What about your present? It’s your turn.”

“I think I can get mine upstairs, eh?” Jonny answers, and Patrick hits him with a filthy grin, grabbing Jonny’s hand and lacing their fingers together, already moving them toward the stairs.

“Damn right you can, baby—time for some Christmas Eve engagement sex. M’gonna ride you into the fucking sunset,” Patrick assures him, and Jonny groans.

“You did not just…” he mumbles, even though he’s long past being embarrassed by Patrick’s allusions to rom-coms and flair for the dramatic.

“Hey, you married me,” Patrick shrugs as they reach the second floor, and Jonny laughs.

“Not yet I haven’t,” he reminds Patrick, and Patrick stops them, pressing Jonny into the wall.

“But you’re gonna,” Patrick says, grinding his erection into Jonny’s thigh, starting in on the buttons of his shirt.

“But I’m gonna,” Jonny echoes, and Patrick’s giddy with it as Jonny pushes them through the doorway, so thankful their parents got that hotel; he’s not holding anything back from Jonny tonight. No chance.

Things slow way down once they get in the bedroom. They’ve got all the time in the world, and Patrick thinks he speaks for the both of them when he says he wants to feel this—every touch, every emotion, all of it.

They undress each other unhurriedly, appreciatively; Patrick taking the time to run his hands over every part of Jonny’s gorgeous, muscled body as it’s exposed to him.

No matter how many times they do this, Patrick doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the way his body reacts to Jonny’s, the uninhibited need he feels for him; wanting to get closer and closer and closer still, even if it’s physically impossible to do so.

Jonny’s hooded gaze is heavy on him as he removes Patrick’s shirt, the metal of his necklace cool against his chest. The look is one that used to leave Patrick feeling shy, back in the beginning, but now it emboldens him, knowing that Jonny wants and adores him just as completely. There’s an unwavering level of comfort, and yet a constant sense of newness with them that’s unlike anything Patrick’s ever felt; and it’s only going to get better as they take this next step, like they’ve done most others since they were rookies at eighteen, together.

Jonny’s his partner, in every sense of the word, and soon, it’ll be lawfully so.

When their clothes are gone, heaped together on the floor, Patrick reaches to undo his chain, and Jonny circles his wrist and pulls it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s knuckles to stop him.

“I want you to wear it, only that, when we…” he trails off, dragging his lips across Patrick’s skin, never breaking eye contact, and Patrick shudders just thinking about it: the symbol of their engagement hanging around his neck while they fuck, express their love for each other in that obsessive, primal way that’s been fixed in their relationship from the start. Before they were able to say the words to each other, before they had _more_ , there was this.

There will always be this.

“Me too, Jon,” Patrick says, cheeks flushing with raw emotion as he steps into Jonny’s space, pushing his hands through Jonny’s hair and pulling him down into a languid kiss.

Jonny’s fingers trail in feather light touches over Patrick’s shoulders and back, a tickle that sparks deep in his belly, and soon his touch heads further south, fingers dipping between Patrick’s cheeks.

Patrick moans at the first brush over his hole, needy and wanting, and bites at Jonny’s lower lip. He can feel Jonny’s erection against his stomach, the heat of Jonny’s body all over him, and the press of his cross between their chests; so many sensations drawing his mind in different directions, but all centered around Jonny, on being with him.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Patrick encourages, shoving his ass back into Jonny’s expert hands. “How you want me?”

“Hands and knees while I get you ready, yeah?” Jonny tells him, turning him around and guiding him to the bed, then he gets in close, lips at Patrick’s ear. “Then I remember hearing somethin’ about a sunset ride.”

“Mhmm,” Patrick shivers. “Sure did.”

He gets in position, on all fours near the edge of the bed just like Jonny asked, and hears the distinct snap of a lube cap, and his skin goosebumps all over, anticipation building inside him.

Jonny places a kiss to both dimples at the small of his back, to the sides of his thighs, then to the tops of his ass cheeks, and Patrick’s squirming, muscles jumping at each touch that’s not what he’s after, but something he wants just the same.

The first press of Jonny’s finger inside is like heaven, the stretch something Patrick wants to savor, his body opening for Jonny, giving to him. Jonny doesn’t let up, working insistently around that loosening muscle until Patrick’s ready for another, then three, all the while rubbing a warm, relaxing hand up and down Patrick’s spine, murmuring to him in a hushed, doting voice.

“You look so good, Patrick, so beautiful,” he breathes. “Could keep you like this forever.”

“But please don’t,” Patrick swallows around a tight smile, glacing over his shoulder, knowing he’d stay here for as long as his arms and legs would hold him if Jonny wanted it. “Need you, Jon.”

His engagement cross is hanging down, swinging forward as each push of Jonny’s fingers ripples through him, and it makes his heart do funny, fluttery things, seeing it there.

Then Jonny strokes his prostate, and it wrenches an unbridled groan from deep in his chest.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Jonny. I’m ready. I’m good, I’m good,” Patrick whines, falling to his elbows. “Please.”

Patrick whimpers when Jonny removes his fingers, not even slightly embarrassed at what he must look like, ass in the air, open and exposed, or at how desperately he wants that empty feeling replaced with something more, that fullness he can only get from being filled with Jonny’s cock.

Then Patrick feels the unexpected, yet unmistakable drag of the cock in question between his cheeks; blunt, smooth tip against his rim, and he jolts forward in surprise, then presses back into it, chasing it. He needs Jonny to take him now, dizzy with want, but then he remembers—

“Hey, get up here,” Patrick orders, pushing himself up and spinning around to grab Jonny and pull him in. His chest and neck are flushed and splotchy, like it gets whenever he’s super turned on, and the color matches that of his dick, red and full, hard and ready to go.

Patrick kisses him roughly, then pushes him down on the bed, and Jonny smirks, shuffling back against the pillows, and repeats Patrick’s question from earlier, voice thick with arousal.

“How you want me?”

“Propped up a little, two pillows only,” Patrick requests. He wants Jonny to lie back, but not too far; got to be able to stroke that pretty face and chest if he wants to.

“You got it,” Jonny complies, arranging himself while Patrick grabs the still-opened lube, squirting a little in his hand to slick Jonny up.

Jonny’s mouth falls open at the first pass of Patrick’s hand on his dick, foreskin sliding easily over the leaking head and back down, then Jonny bites his lip, teeth worrying at it over and over like it’s unthinking.

God, he’s so sexy; Patrick can’t get over it, that Jonny’s his to keep—to have and to hold and all that jazz.

Suddenly, he can’t wait one single second longer to have Jonny inside him, wiping his hand on the bedspread as he climbs on top and guides himself down on Jonny’s dick until he’s seated.

They both groan in unison, Patrick’s tapering off into a moan as Jonny’s cock grazes that electric bundle of nerves. He clenches and relaxes, adjusting to Jonny’s girth, and Jonny makes a choked off sound, fingers digging into the meat of Patrick’s thighs.

“Fuck, fuck, you feel good,” he whines, and so Patrick does it again, tightening and relaxing around him, just to watch the way Jonny’s eyes flutter shut.

“Ready to ride, babe?” Patrick asks, circling his hips, and Jonny focuses that intense stare on Patrick as he nods, reaching to tug Patrick’s dick a couple times in encouragement. It doesn’t go unappreciated.

Patrick starts to move, slow and deliberate at first, rising up until just the tip remains inside and then lowering himself back down again. It’s amazing; the slick drag of Jonny’s cock at this angle working wonders, pleasure and that familiar heat building in Patrick’s groin, resonating through his whole body with each motion.

All Patrick can hear is his own harsh breathing, Jonny’s grunts and reverent moans, and the sound of their skin smacking together when Patrick bottoms out each time. He moves faster when going slow isn’t cutting it anymore, driven by his own need and the desire to get Jonny there just as quickly. He’s bouncing on Jonny’s cock now, shallow thrusts that leave his muscles burning in the best way and his chain shifting up and down against his chest, a constant reminder of what makes this night so special.

“Look at you, Patrick—I wish you could, ah, fucking see yourself,” Jonny rambles, sweat beading on his brow even though he’s mostly just enjoying the show, the hot, thick scent of sex and _them_ intermingling in the room.

Jonny surges forward, grabbing ahold of Patrick’s cross pendant to pull himself chest to chest with Patrick as Patrick rides him. Jonny doesn’t let go of it, just holds it in his hand, gripping Patrick’s neck with the other as they pant and moan into each other’s mouths, Patrick’s hands on Jonny’s shoulders for leverage.

“Fuck, Jonny, fuck. We’re—I’m gonna be ridin’ you like this ‘til we’re fucking seventy,” Patrick mumbles, a sobbing revelation:

They’re going to grow old together.

Any other time, talking about being geriatric with a dysfunctional dick would be a boner killer, but not tonight, if Jonny’s strangled groan is any indication. “Until your, ungh, until your hips give out and we have to do it on our sides,” he manages, a half sob, half chuckled response that makes Patrick laugh into his mouth, despite the intensity of this sex, of this moment for them.

“Yessss, yes, god yes,” Patrick wails, spiraling toward his release, tears threatening to spill again.

Patrick’s all Jonny, all emotion, all hot sensation coursing through him; so lost in it, he’s taken by surprise when Jonny lays back again, pulling Patrick with him just slightly. He gets his legs under him and his forearms beneath Patrick’s thighs to hold him up in a most impressive and arousing display of strength, and he starts with these quick, hard thrusts, fucking into Patrick perfectly from underneath him.

Patrick’s certain he’ll last through exactly a minute of this, maximum. He’s a sobbing mess, and he can’t remember the last time he cried during sex, but he’s doing it now, moaning and yelping as Jonny’s breathing goes wild, using his powerful thighs and precision to nail Patrick’s prostate with each stroke.

“Oh, oh goddd,” Patrick garbles, hands coming to rest on Jonny’s chest, tweaking his nipples just how Jonny likes. “I fuckin’ love you so much, Jon—so much.”

“Shit, touch yourself, Pat. Come for me, baby, c’mon,” Jonny tells him, and it’s as if that’s what his body was waiting for, because he comes immediately with a shout, clenching down as Jonny keeps pounding into him. It’s so fucking incredible; Patrick feels it from top to bottom, pleasure bursting within him as he shudders through his orgasm, streaking Jonny’s stomach and chest with the evidence of it.

Patrick’s barely aware of Jonny coming too, hips bucking in erratic thrusts, then he stills, dragging Patrick down onto him, bending his knees so he can keep the right angle to stay inside, fill Patrick up.

Patrick lazily kisses Jonny’s chest, his neck, his face; every bit of sweaty skin his lips can reach, tremors rocking through him as they come down, breathing heavily but in sync.

“Will it always be this good, you think?” Jonny whispers after a bit, clutching the back of Patrick’s neck tightly, fingers playing in his curls. He lowers his legs, and Patrick sighs when Jonny slips out, relishing that used feeling. “Even when we’re seventy?”

“Even when we’re seventy, babe, still won’t be able to get enough,” Patrick assures him, and he doesn’t say it to placate Jonny; he says it because he believes it. No way he ever grows tired of this, of having Jonny in every way possible.

Jonny doesn’t say anything in response, just ‘mmmms’ in satisfaction, and reaches for Patrick’s cross and brings it to his lips.

Patrick’s never taking it off.

“You really wanna marry me, huh?” Patrick asks, mostly because he wants to hear Jonny say it again, not because he doubts it at all.

“I do,” Jonny says.

As he tugs the covers over them, Patrick imagines Jonny saying those two words again later, in front of all their friends and family, or in front of a judge in a courthouse. He doesn’t give a fuck, honestly, as long as Jonny’s officially his at the end of it.

“I do, too,” he replies, and at that moment, Patrick can’t think of a single thing he wants more, in fact. Just as they’re dozing, though, Patrick’s hit with an urgent curiosity, something he wants to know almost as badly.

“Hey, Jon?” he starts, kissing the corner of his mouth to rouse him.

“Hmm?” Jonny half-replies, barely awake, but Patrick absolutely must know.

“Where were you hiding my shiny?” He’d fiddled around with that garland just yesterday, and it contained no jewelry boxes.

Jonny chuckles, pushing Patrick’s curls off of his forehead.

“In _your_ sock drawer, duh,” he answers smugly, and Patrick groans, shaking his head. Of course he’d never fucking think to look there.

“You’re the worst.”

Nobody has his number like Jonny. Nobody.

“Aw, love you back, babe,” Jonny mumbles, hugging him close, and Patrick falls asleep, content as ever in his favorite place:

In the arms of his Dirty Santa hero, his fiancé, his forever…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY DONE. 
> 
> Big thanks to heartstrings for being the best second pair of eyes a writer could have. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Feedback welcome and encouraged! ;)
> 
> i'm [here](http://toewsme1988.tumblr.com) on the tumblies.


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